Of Sugar Cookies and Mistletoe
by Rhianwen
Summary: Joker helps Wendy decorate sugar cookies, and cultivates some Christmas cheer and a healthy dislike of sprinkles. Slight JokerWendy. As sugary-sweet as the cookies. No redeeming value, aside from the possible appearance of a Warm Fuzzy. :o)


Of Sugar Cookies and Mistletoe

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters depicted are not owned by the author, and are used here without permission. The passive voice is also being shamelessly abused within this disclaimer in a way that would be the cause of much weeping and gnashing of teeth in most English professors that the author is familiar with.

* * *

Summary: Joker helps Wendy decorate sugar cookies, and cultivates some Christmas cheer and a healthy dislike of sprinkles. Slight Joker/Wendy. As sugary-sweet as the cookies. No redeeming value, aside from the possible appearance of a Warm Fuzzy. :o)

* * *

The day was gloomy, and bitterly cold. A shrewish, snarling wind swirled the falling now about, hardening it into sharp, stinging ice crystals.

It was, all in all, the sort of Sunday afternoon best spent in one's own home, preferably with a cup of hot tea and a book of some description, in front of a roaring fire.

And, the tall, youngish, fair-haired man noted, peering up and down the deserted street as he climbed out of his car, most people seemed to know this quite well.

He wasn't entirely sure exactly what restlessness had driven him out-of-doors today and compelled him to invent the silliest of errands as an excuse, but it seemed that he was the only person abysmally foolish enough to be out and about.

Shaking his head with a dry smile at the thought, he snatched up the small package from the back seat and started toward the small apartment building, through the little low iron gate, and to the wide, flat concrete step up to the front door.

* * *

As a peal from the doorbell broke the silence of intense concentration within the kitchen, drowsily warm from the heat of the oven, Wendy involuntarily gave the bottle of red food colouring a sharp squeeze, and then shrieked in dismay as half its contents shot from the nozzle and onto her sweater.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, swiping futilely at the blotch for a few seconds before bolting for the door.

* * *

"Hello, Wendy," Joker greeted briskly as the door swung open. "I was in the neighbourhood, and I thought I might drop by to…return this," he finished slowly, the words trailing off into bewildered silence at the odd spectacle before him.

"Erm, hello, Mr. Joker," she greeted miserably, blushing brightly enough to rival the splotch of colour down her front, and swiping at the streak of powdery sugar across her forehead. "Did…did you want to come in and have some tea?"

"Might I ask exactly what happened?" he asked, hiding a smile and shutting the door behind him as she stepped aside to let him in.

"Well…I was baking Christmas cookies," she replied, looking down as her slippers became suddenly and inexplicably very interesting.

"Ah. From the look of you, I'd wager the cookies are winning, are they?"

She stopped short in the act of peeking into the little bag he had handed her, and frowned at him.

"It's food colouring," she explained through gritted teeth. "For the icing."

"I see," he said, nodding his thanks as she motioned him to the couch in the middle of the room. "Good to know you haven't been shot by a gang of bandits invading your kitchen."

"Is it that bad?" she pouted. "Well, hold on a moment; I'll go change into something that doesn't make me resemble a gunfight victim."

"I'll wait," he called after her as she disappeared down the hallway.

He glanced idly about the room. Small, lit by two little lamps with shades of a light amber colour that cast a warm glow about the room, perched on side tables on either side of the couch. She seemed to have a weakness for modern art, he noted, shaking his head at a large framed print of various…splotchy things in earth tones of a range of intensities.

_Fascinating_, he thought, gazing at it with one hand to his chin in deep consideration. _If you look at it long enough, it seems to morph from a boat to a cat to a – ehem! What on earth is she thinking, hanging pictures of something like THAT?!_

Well, perhaps she simply hadn't looked at it long enough. Perhaps she had seen it and squealed with delight over the "abstractness" of the thing. It was nearly a shame, he thought, that she seemed to have missed the point of cold, sleek austerity he had hitherto associated with the category he had lumped together in his mind, perhaps a little unfairly, as "modern art" and achieved an effect more warm and cosy, if a little crowded with the couch, armchair, side tables, coffee table, television and stereo stand, and computer desk that were far too much for the size of the space.

_And all of these damn candles,_ he reflected, eyeing the cluster of tea-lights and votives, some giving off the faint scents of chocolate and cinnamon and coffee, _are simply a fire hazard. It's a miracle the girl hasn't burnt down the building by now._

As if on cue, a dismayed squeak, followed by a loud thump, sounded behind him, breaking the silence.

"Back, are you?" he said, not turning.

"Mm-hmm!" she replied brightly. "I'll go make some tea. I have to check on the cookies anyway."

"They smell good, if it's any consolation; your sweater did not sacrifice its life in vain," he called after her as she trotted into the kitchen.

At this, she back-pedalled, and sent him an impish grin.

"You can have half, if you stay and help me decorate them."

He eyed her in disbelief.

"Wendy," he began sternly. "Do I seem the cookie-decorating type to you? Or the Christmas cheer type at all?"

When, after several seconds, she was still trying to stifle a fit of giggles brought on by the mental image of him in a Santa-suit, with folded arms and cross expression, he frowned.

"Is it that funny?"

"No," she gasped. "You just make an adorable Santa Claus in my mind."

"Your mind sounds like a terrifying place," he noted solemnly.

She cleared her throat and wiped away tears of mirth.

"So, does that mean you won't help me?"

"It does, actually."

"Not even if I promise you the nicer half?"

He made a noise best described as fond impatience.

"What am I going to do with half a batch of Christmas cookies?"

"Oh, I don't know," she replied mischievously, leaning against the doorframe in just such a way that the soft light caught in her hair and made it seem to glow gently. "Eat them, possibly?"

"A sensible suggestion, I suppose," he admitted, expression growing slightly pained as his stomach chose that moment to put in a word – or a noise, rather – for its agreement with this assessment, reminding him snippily that he had neglected to eat anything yet today. "Nevertheless, I think I'll have to decline."

"Oh," she sighed, drooping a little dejectedly. "Right."

* * *

"Right," he said briskly twenty minutes later as he tied a rather awful red and white checked apron tightly around his waist. "How does one go about decorating a Christmas cookie?"

Wendy froze in the act of placing their teacups and saucers in the kitchen sink, and stared at him, her satisfied and slightly smug smile at having so neatly "guilted" her boss into doing something _fun_ for a change quickly vanishing.

"You've never baked Christmas cookies?"

"Not since leaving home," he replied. "And when we made them at home, we never got quite so far as the decorating. They tended to all disappear before icing them became an issue. I grew up with four brothers," he explained.

"Oh," she said, nodding in perfect understanding. "I only have two brothers, but it was enough of a problem as far as the cookies lasting long enough to decorate went. I would always smuggle two dozen or so into my bedroom and decorate them there. But every year, without fail, I would upset the icing bowl on my carpet and then try to get the colour out by myself with a towel, because I thought Mum would be angry. By the time we had the carpets replaced, my floor looked something like an Easter egg," she concluded with a grimace.

He nodded hesitantly.

"Er, right. Just spread some on, then?"

"Let me mix the rest of the colours first," she said, moving away from the sink and reaching for the bottle of blue food colouring on the counter in front of him.

He caught her hand.

"Why don't you let me?" he suggested, eyeing the bits of red that had refused to entirely fade when she'd washed the colouring off her hands.

"Oh, alright," she pouted, before glancing down and noticing her hand still in his, and blushing slightly. "Em. I'll go…er…group the cookies by shape."

"Right," Joker agreed with studied absence, releasing her and then letting a few drops of blue food colouring fall into the mess of icing sugar and water in the small bowl. "Wouldn't want the stars to get mixed up with the trees."

"Or the hearts to get mixed up with the moons," she added.

"Hearts and moons? What do they have to do with Christmas?"

"The cutters came with the pack," she explained. "And I thought the company who sold them would know better than me what constitutes a Christmasey shape."

"Clearly not, or we wouldn't be decorating Christmas hearts and Christmas moons."

"Well, they taste the same whether they're Christmasey shapes or not."

"Then why the cookie cutters at all?" he asked, pausing in the act of stirring green food colouring into the water and sugar mixture.

"Because they're fun," she replied airily, nudging all the sled-shaped cookies to the bottom left-hand side of the cooling rack.

"Yes, but wouldn't they taste just as good simply rolled into little balls?"

"Yes, but they're _fun_ this way," she repeated, a little annoyed. "The whole point of sugar cookies is the fun shapes, isn't it?"

"I suppose one can't argue with fun," he said with a tiny shrug.

She shook her head, and then turned back to the all-consuming task of cookie organization.

"Right," he said, lining up five small bowls at the back of the counter. "We have green icing, blue icing, red icing, white icing, and yellow icing. Anything else we'll need?"

She paused in the act of setting out large dinner plates to hold the completed cookies, and considered this carefully.

"Purple might be nice."

"Purple," he repeated slowly. "For those purple Christmas trees and Santa Clauses you see everywhere this time of the year, I suppose?"

"I like purple," she said simply.

"Right, I'll make some purple icing," he said with something dangerously close to a good-natured grumble.

"Thank-you," she beamed.

Trying and utterly failing to bite back a smile, he squeezed three drops of blue and red food colouring into the bowl.

* * *

"Here, why don't you use some sprinkles?" she suggested ten minutes of noiseless cookie-making later, nudging the bottle towards him.

"No, thank you; I'm doing quite well with just the icing."

"Right," she replied absently, sprinkling the coloured bits liberally over a blue bow that he had seconds before placed on one of the plates.

He glanced at her and away quickly, and then his head snapped back around.

"Wendy! What are you doing? That was one of mine!"

"I was just making it more _interesting_," she said, eyes wide and innocent.

He made an impatient noise.

"Well, stop making my cookies interesting while I'm not looking!"

"Sorry," she grinned sheepishly. "I'll make you another _un_interesting cookie to take its place, if you'd like."

"And see that you do," he said, hiding a smile. "And see that this one actually makes it to the plate, would you?"

She blinked in wide-eyed innocence.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now. I know how many cookies you've decorated, and I know how many cookies are on that plate. I've noticed a bit of a discrepancy, to be honest."

"I like cookies," she explained very seriously.

"Yes, well, we all like cookies," he said in a voice that only her years of experience with him let her know was teasing. "Some of us simply prefer them in moderation."

"Now, I _don't_ like moderation," she said thoughtfully.

"Apparently."

"Just in cookies, though."

"Ah."

"Christmas isn't about moderation, anyway."

"What is it about, then?" he asked, slightly scornfully. "Commercialism?"

"No! Not commercialism!" she protested, then paused. "Well, not _only_ commercialism."

"Ah, yes; commercialism and out-dated myths."

"It's a time for family! And 'peace on earth, good will toward all men!'"

"I'm helping you decorate your Christmas cookies, Wendy," he said, faintly exasperated. "How much more 'good will' does one need?"

"I'm sure a _little_ more wouldn't hurt you," she said under her breath.

He looked at her sharply.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she assured him innocently. "Em…anyway, can I ask why exactly you had to return my gardening manual today? I'm sure I won't be using it in December…"

"I was in the neighbourhood," he said hastily. "I was out for a drive, and I just happened past."

"And you had my book with you?" she said, frowning in confusion.

"I've taken to keeping it in the glove box, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"You know," he said, waving a hand dismissively.

"Er, not really."

"Yes, well—"

"Were you bored today?" she asked very kindly and gently.

"I don't _get_ bored," he replied indignantly.

"That must be wonderful," she said wistfully.

He nodded, faintly smug.

"Indeed."

Meanwhile, she was examining the now-empty jar of sprinkles.

"Oh, dear, I think we've run out," she lamented.

"What a pity," he said dryly.

She frowned.

"I like sprinkles!"

"Of course you do," he said, patting her shoulder lightly.

She pouted for a moment, and then acquired a rather thoughtful and faintly devious expression, recalling a little bundle she had tucked into the pantry earlier that week, meaning to take it into the office sometime this month. He pretended to cough and smiled into his handkerchief as she looked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent.

"I think I've left some sprinkles in my bedroom closet. Would you mind looking for them for me?"

"Why on earth do you keep sprinkles in your bedroom closet?"

"So I'll remember where they are."

"I…see," he said slowly, corners of his mouth twitching slightly. _Bedroom closet, indeed?__ Not very good at subtlety, this one…_ He cleared his throat. "I'll be back in a moment, then."

"Alright," she called over her shoulder, from the pantry. "Hurry back."

* * *

"Oh, my," he noted in mock-surprise, poking delicately through the clutter on the top shelf of her closet. "There don't seem to be any sprinkles in here. Well. I suppose she must have sent me in here for some other reason. Honestly, she takes a long time to express her interest, but when she puts her mind to it, she certainly gets things said. 'Could you take a look in my bedroom closet?', indeed!"

Not bothering to suppress his slight grin this time, he searched the closet carefully one more time, marvelled for a brief moment at his severe obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and settled into the little armchair, covered in some sort of striped yellow and blue material, next to the bedside table, to wait.

"Hmm. Taking her rather a long time," he commented, frowning a little.

* * *

"Taking him rather a long time," she commented five minutes later, frowning more than a little.

She pushed off of the door frame and reached up to adjust the mistletoe she had moments ago pinned in place above the doorway.

"I hope he's not _actually_ looking for sprinkles," she said, expression growing a little worried. "Honestly, the man wouldn't know a clever ruse if he sat in it!"

* * *

"Where on earth _is_ she?" he murmured to himself, absently flipping a page in the paperback he'd found on her bedside table, seeming fairly innocuous with its pale pink cover, if not for the title splashed across the front in darker pink script, _Spicy Bedtime Stories for the Modern Woman_.

After glancing impatiently at the door one more time, he returned his attention to the book.

"Hmm. 'She lay back, allowing her robe to fall open, and invited him to join her on the coffee table. And then he…'" Here, Joker trailed off, and his eyebrow shot up nearly into his hairline. "Oh, did he?"

* * *

"Where on earth _is _he?" Wendy demanded angrily of no one in particular. "If he doesn't come back soon, I'm going to have to search the washroom and spare bedroom to see if he got lost on his way back down the hallway!"

She crossed her arms and pouted slightly, and then frowned and blushed slightly.

"Oh, dear. I hope I didn't leave my…er…book anywhere terribly obvious."

* * *

"Goodness!" Joker said, shaking his head as he flipped the page. "Moved to the kitchen counter, have they? Honestly, what's wrong with the bed? And what sort of thing is a 'quivering love-mound'?"

Then, checking his watch, he frowned.

"Fifteen minutes. I'm beginning to think I've misinterpreted her meaning slightly."

* * *

"I think he _did_ get lost," Wendy finally proclaimed, pushing off the doorframe and getting all set to stomp down the hallway, although quietly, so as not to annoy her neighbours, particularly those in the apartment below her.

However, before she could take more than a few steps, Joker emerged from the hallway, looking decidedly sheepish.

"I couldn't find them," he said.

"Oh, that's alright," she said, hurrying back to the doorway. "I found them. They were in my medicine cabinet, after all."

He shook his head.

"Honestly, Wendy, your logic is dizzying."

"Thank-you," she chirped brightly, moving aside to allow him into the doorway, and then smiling up at him expectantly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

She pointed at the top of the doorframe.

He looked up. ­­

"Ah. Mistletoe. Funny; I didn't notice it there before."

Blushing brightly, she looked down.

"Erm. Well, it wasn't in a very obvious place, I suppose."

_Or you've just hung it,_ he added silently with an equally silent chuckle. _Well. It's good to know that there _was_ a ruse involved, and I was simply wrong about the intended result._

"Well, yes," he agreed aloud. "Anyone could have missed it, right above the doorway like that."

"Erm. Yes."

"But it _is_ tradition," he continued, moving slightly closer and raising a hand to carefully cup her cheek.

"Y-yes," she agreed faintly, blushing even more brightly and staring up at him as though hypnotized. "Tradition."

In days to come, it would occur to her that she might have been going to say something else, but as he bent forward and brushed her mouth lightly with his own, and then, as she would express it just as soon as she could think again, kissed her _properly_, it utterly ceased to matter, and she reflected hazily that she could honestly come to like being interrupted if he would do it this way more often.

After several moments, but still far too soon for her liking – and his, if his expression was anything to judge by – he pulled away and smoothed her hair down.

"We're still under the mistletoe," she said hopefully.

Caught off-guard by this, he laughed.

"I suppose we are. And I suppose it's still tradition…"

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Wendy hummed softly to herself as she packed the "un-sprinkled" half of the Christmas cookies into a little box. She turned to the tall blond man, who was in the process of drying and putting away the last of the dishes.

"Sure you won't take a few with sprinkles?"

"Quite sure," he replied, turning briefly, and then returning to the task at hand.

"Alright," she said, surreptitiously slipping a Christmas tree iced in green and covered with brightly coloured bits of sugar, and a pink sled covered with translucent green bits, into the box.

A strange gurgling sound echoed through the small kitchen. With a look of studied nonchalance, Joker folded his arms across his stomach to silence any further protests.

"Ehem. Perhaps I'll start on those now," he said, taking the box from her.

She snatched it back.

"Don't be silly! You can't eat Christmas cookies on an empty stomach! All that sugar; who knows what might happen? I'll make you something proper."

"Need any help?" he asked lightly as she reached, with some effort, for a pot on the top shelf.

"None at all," she assured him through the clatter of several more pots tumbling to the floor. "Ow!"

"Really. Let me help," he said, crossing the kitchen in a few steps and pulling the frying pan from the hand not busily clutching her sore head.

"No, no, I've got it under control," she said briskly, shooing him away. "Why don't you go wait in the living room, and I'll call you when it's ready?"

"Well. Alright, then," he agreed, reflecting with a fond smile that he could get back into the kitchen right away if he heard any particularly pained screams, or if he smelled smoke.

Then, as he reached the door, he stopped and turned again.

"Oh, and by the way, Wendy, perhaps you can help me with something," he said with a hint of something teasing in his voice. "Can you by any chance tell me what sort of object a 'quivering love-mound' is?"

* * *

End Notes: Okay; so, despite the fact that I am not at all sure of the likelihood of Wendy even deciding to make and decorate sugar cookies in the first place (not to mention the Horribly OOC Ruse and Misinterpretation Thereof), I thought it was cute. And it fit the season. Even if the ending was abrupt and rather strange.

Merry Christmas and/or various other holidays that you may wish to substitute!


End file.
